


courting the lie

by mortalitasi



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: (tenative curious friendship full of verbal barbs), F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Thor (2011), Romance, Slow Burn, frigga is sneaky and also the best mom, gen - Freeform, in this house we love tropes!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 12:32:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17467607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortalitasi/pseuds/mortalitasi
Summary: Loki has long lived by a cycle of satisfying whatever curiosity strikes him, learning all he can, moving onto the next lesson. It makes him an excellent sorcerer—if not so much of an excellent friend.When he obeys habit and follows the thread of curiosity to a new peculiarity, he finds that the person in question evasive. In fact, she actually wants nothing to do with him at all.He has never been too good at leaving well enough alone.





	courting the lie

**Author's Note:**

> part 2 forthcoming i just can't stare at this in my folder anymore taaaake iiiiit
> 
> (mild mythological references cos i can't help myself sorry)

Loki has not attended many funerals.  
  
Death on Asgard is rare—the times when soldiers and fallen warriors were returned to the realm carried on their shields are long gone, consigned to the days when Odin rode out to face the jötnar in open battle. Asgardians as a people are long-lived and hale besides: illness is a strange and foreign concept, at least that which is incurable or unmanageable. Injuries mend. Scars are collected. But dying—outside of war, no less—is something of a novelty.  
  
Perhaps that is why so many have gathered today.  
  
The banks of the Ífingr are bristling with mourners, swathes of black cloth upon black cloth, veils, cloaks, tunics, and all. The turnout is quite impressive, considering he can’t remember anything more than paltry details about the Agardian lying prone in the burial ship; the dead man is dressed in fine, beautiful armor, silver and scarlet, its edges gilt so exquisitely that the patterns seem more like liquid gold than static decoration. Clasped between his gauntleted hands is a gleaming rapier; its hilt is circled with runes of fortune and favor. He looks much like Thor, this departed fellow, with his long blond hair combed carefully back, his beard trimmed neat and close to his square jaw.  
  
Baldur had been fond of music and poetry and mead, and hadn’t run in much of the same circles as Loki—funny how that’s true of most of Asgard, really. By all accounts, he’d been a true philanthropist, pleasant company, a talented skald, and an even more talented diplomat. They’d only met a handful of times during the long years of Loki’s youth—being in Baldur’s presence was much like facing the unforgiving glare of the sun on a cloudless day, blinding and bewildering; it was not an experience Loki endeavored to repeat, not overmuch. Perhaps he should have. Then he would be feeling more than simple, clinical interest at everything going on around him.  
  
Mother and Father are standing side-by-side just ahead of him, their shoulders brushing: he can see the white flowers Frigga has woven into her circlet from this close, and could probably touch the fluttering fabric of her blue shift if he reached out. Thor is resplendent in his full armor, for once utterly solemn—a baffling sight on its own—his red cape pooling silkily around his feet. Loki feels almost out of place here, next to his entire family, the only one of them dark of hair and character.  
  
The company of Einherjar who had borne the longboat to shore wade into the water, pulling it along with them; the wood rasps and hisses against the pebbles, then slips silently into the current. The entire river looks like liquid obsidian in the night, with the ghostly reflections of the torches and lanterns playing on its glassy surface.  
  
A pair of women at the front of the procession separates. The younger of the two is the one who steps forward, the trail of her ebony tunic brushing over the ground; she is lovely, in the stately manner Asgardians are, with a slim neck and white arms ringed in gold. Her hair looks almost black, but in the light he can see it’s truly an autumn red, dark as a garnet, twisted up in fine braids around her temples, the rest falling loose over her back and shoulders. The pallor of grief clings to her like a tangible thing, leeching her fair face of all color and life.  
  
As the ship makes its way from the shore, carried along by the pull of the Ífingr, she begins to sing. It is a sad song, and her voice is sweet, husky with emotion; when he moves forward to hear better, he sees tears gleaming in Mother’s eyes, though her expression is perfectly collected, the pinnacle of utter composure. A queen in every way.  
  
The melody continues as Baldur embarks on his final journey. Silence reigns on land amongst the living; all gazes are trained toward the longboat making its way toward the edge of the world, drifting away to the sound of an ancient lament. An Einherjar steps forward at some point, lifting a longbow of yew, nocking a flaming, swan-feather arrow to its string. He takes careful aim, considering the gentle breeze from the east, angling so that his shot will not go astray. The bow tenses as the archer draws—and the arrow flies, cutting through the air like a knife.  
  
The last strains of the dirge fade into quiet, and they all watch as the longboat blazes with fire, a lonely traveller forging onward into eternal night.  
  
It is only after Baldur’s body has turned to ether, the golden mist of his soul ascending to the stars, that the woman with the red hair turns to face the congregation.  
  
“I am Solveig Baldursdóttir,” she says, clasping her hands in front of her. Magic ripples around her, letting her voice echo—allowing it to reach even the people at the far back of the riverbank.  
  
The older Asgardian woman she was standing with before is still weeping, tears streaking her face. Loki can see the resemblance between them: the slender nose and the proud brow, the high cheekbones and handsome jaw. That must be her mother.  
  
“I want to thank you all for coming here today. My father—” She stops, suddenly overcome, but her grip tightens, knuckles whitening, and she goes on. “My father’s generosity, his kindness—they touched many people throughout his life. He was ever prepared to grant sanctuary and succor to those who were in need of it. He… he taught me the importance of celebrating what we have. To cherish our blessings, no matter how small.” She takes a shaky breath, letting the words work their way through those gathered around her. “By the everlasting grace of the Allfather and Allmother, my family and I have been granted a boon: to allow you the chance to join us in remembering my father as you knew him,” she goes on, smiling, though it is wan and full of pain. “There will be song, and drink, and stories. We would welcome your company at the palace this night. May there be light and laughter for you always.”  
  
Loki stands aside as the crowd begins to disperse, following his parents with his gaze as they make their way over to the red lady—Solveig. He watches his mother embrace her, sees the evidence of Solveig’s sorrow on her cheeks. Such earnest anguish prickles at him; he cannot muster much of the same feeling. He tries to think if any one death could cause him that same misery. _Mother._ Thor. Father. No friends to speak of. That might be a good thing—the less liabilities, the better.  
  
Thor goes over next. Tall as she is, Solveig is still dwarfed by him, almost hidden from view by the broad-shouldered silhouette of the God of Thunder. He takes her hands in his. They’re veritably swallowed up by Thor’s palms, but Loki glimpses her fingers curling back over his in response. It’s rather funny, seeing Thor stoop politely to speak to a lady, as though he has any manners to speak of. Well, he might have some. Not many. Just _some_.  
  
Loki cannot hear what they’re saying, and is not much concerned. Solveig’s mother is walking ahead with Frigga, head bowed—Father leads them. Thor is occupied, and the people are leaving. He will not stay and court attention he does not desire.  
  
He looks back at the Ífingr before he leaves, but the river has no answers for him.  
  
It is cold, it is dark—and it is silent.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
The banquet hall is warmly-lit, buzzing with conversation and cheer.  
  
It is not so fervent a revel as banquets in Asgard tend to be, but Loki is grateful for it. He is no particular mood to cause any disturbance today, and he prefers the somewhat-quiet to total, drunken pandemonium (even if total, drunken pandemonium is a wonderful way to get leverage of any sort).  
  
He takes a sip from his goblet, letting the tang of the wine settle on his tongue before he swallows. Pleasant. He picks the tastes apart, unraveling the spool of flavor thread by thread: black cherry and woodsmoke, apple and pepper. Some nutmeg. He's trying to guess at the year when Frigga appears beside him soundlessly, resting a hand on his arm.  
  
“Mother,” he greets, nodding.  
  
“Loki,” she returns. “Enjoying yourself?”  
  
“As much as I can,” he says.  
  
Frigga smiles. “And have you paid your respects yet?”  
  
“Ah. Well, about that…”  
  
She gives him a knowing look. “You should. Haven't I taught you better?”  
  
He sighs. “You have. But in case it's escaped your notice, our guest of honor is nowhere to be seen.”  
  
It _is_ the truth. Some thirty minutes into the memorial, Solveig had slipped away from the company of the Warriors Three, disappearing near the entrance to the northern terrace. He cannot find it in himself to blame her; he, too, would run if he were confined to a place with only Thor’s brutish troupe as entertainment.  
  
“Are you telling me you cannot find her?” Frigga says, with no small amount of slyness.  
  
“You know I can,” Loki replies, lifting his goblet for another drink, watching his mother over the rim. “Why do I feel like you're up to something?”  
  
“Go on,” she tells him, completely ignoring the question. She plucks the goblet from his hand, taking it for herself instead. “Some socializing would do you good.”  
  
“The girl’s just lost her father, Mother,” he says. He misses his wine already. “I doubt she wants to _talk.”_  
  
“Then offer your condolences and return,” she suggests. “You have nothing to lose.”  
  
_Except my precious time,_ is what he wants to say, but this is Mother, and he would never turn his words against her. “Very well,” he sighs instead, raising his palms in a show of of acquiescence. “I'm off.”  
  
She smiles at him again as he leaves. It makes him feel a little less of a fool for what he's doing. He wasn't even aware Baldur had a daughter before today. If that doesn't absolutely scream disinterest, he can’t think of what else would. Nevertheless, Loki is a man of his word—most of the time—and so he sidles past the crush of people at the banquet table, past the groups of tipsy Asgardians clumped around the mead caskets at the far end of the hall, and onto the quiet bower of the terrace beyond.  
  
It takes his eyes scant seconds to adjust to the dark: two sconces burn here, each on one side of the entrance to the hallway, but the rest of the balcony is dim. The view from the palace is as magnificent as ever—Asgard is a collection of glowing domes and spires in the night, glittering under an endless expanse of stars. Looking at it makes his heart ache. This is home, as imperfect and incomprehensible as it is sometimes, and he would not want to hail from anywhere else.  
  
She’s sitting on the railing furthest from the entrance, back leaned against the wall, head tilted up to the sky. The black tunic she wore during the funeral is gone, replaced by a dark green dress with a golden girdle. He can track the rise and fall of her breath as she turns her head to look at him.  
  
“Your Highness,” she says, coming to her feet. He can finally see the real color of her eyes when she rises from her bow—grey as slate, clear and observant, framed by thick lashes.  
  
At least he doesn’t have to introduce himself. “I’m not interrupting, I hope.”  
  
She chuckles, inclining her head. “No, my lord. I was simply on a quest for some fresh air.”  
  
He clasps his hands behind his back, stepping out further. “A rarity inside, it’s true.”  
  
“Do you wish to be alone? I will leave, if you’d like.”  
  
“That won’t be necessary,” he says. “I was actually looking for you.”  
  
That gives her pause. She hesitates before approaching from the left, coming to stand at his side; the crown of her head is just level with his mouth—it’s refreshing to not have to look down when he speaks. Her voice is soft, and careful.“Your Highness…?”  
  
“I wanted to offer you my condolences,” Loki murmurs. Her shoulders tense at the words, the muscles under her pale skin tautening. “I regret that I didn’t do so earlier.”  
  
She takes longer to reply than he expected she would—he dwells on the possibility that she can tell he’s baldly _lying_ , but the odds of that being true are slimmer than Thor’s patience. “You pay me a great honor, my lord,” she says at last, stiffly, and he can't decide whether she sounds irritated or simply tired. “I thank you.”  
  
That didn't go half as well as he’d expected it to. Everything about her body language, from the severe line of her spine, to the sharp glint in her eyes—is telling him she has suddenly no desire to continue the conversation, despite the kind reception beforehand. What could he have possibly done in the last two moments that could have changed the mood so? He has to say, he usually has better luck, especially with those of the fairer sex.  
  
Asking her if something is the matter would go imperially wrong, he can tell. He’s seen this look on Sif’s face enough to know. Retreat is becoming a very attractive prospect. Besides, he did what he came to do, did he not? All’s well that ends well. Sort of.  
  
“I shan’t trouble you further,” he goes on, nodding his head to her. “If you find yourself in need of anything, please, do not hesitate to ask. We all mourn with you today “  
  
Another pleasantry, another lie. What tedium. Now there’s no mistaking the shine of fury in her gaze.  
  
“Blessings of plenty upon you, my lord,” she says, bowing to him deeply and formally, though the gesture rather feels like an insult, if he’s to be honest.  
  
She watches him turn and leave with an intensity that makes the skin between his shoulders prickle uncomfortably.  
  
By the time he’s reached the hall again, annoyance has well and truly set in. Who is she, a complete stranger, to act such a way in his presence? He’d been nothing but cordial and accommodating—a perfect prince, the very model of a mannered man—and she’d rebuffed him (yes, _rebuffed!_ ) with all the grace one reserves for a bug. He is Loki Odinson. He is not a _bug_.  
  
Frigga seems to have been expecting him, for she is standing where he left her, still holding his goblet aloft.  
  
“Success?” she asks, upon seeing the thunderous look on his face.  
  
He snatches the goblet from her, all but crushing it in his hand. “She despises me,” he snaps, turning an accusatory glare onto his mother. “She doesn’t even _know_ me.”  
  
“That bad?”  
  
He stops, every thought grinding to a halt, scrutinizing Frigga with new suspicion. “You know something I don’t.”  
  
She smiles at him, a portrait of royal innocence, her blue eyes twinkling. “Do I?”  
  
“I will find out what it is, and what you have made me do,” he vows, jabbing the edge of the goblet at her. “But not tonight.”  
  
Frigga only threads her arm through his, patting at his bracer with a gentle hand. “My curious son. You were always so bright.”  
  
He takes a pull from his wine, grateful for the warmth it spreads through his veins. “The implication being that now I am not?”  
  
She chuckles, stands on her toes for a moment, and presses a conciliatory kiss to his cheek. “You have your moments.”  
  
He just grunts, not genuinely angry with her in any capacity. Mother has ever been the only person that holds true about—he’s wished to throw Thor from the Bifrost more times than he can count, and Father… that is another matter entirely. A pat on the jaw breaks him from his mulling.  
  
“Do not look so grim,” Frigga says. “There are good things ahead.”  
  
He raises a brow at her. “Is this dubious claim backed by your famous foresight?”  
  
There’s that smile again, secretive but guileless. “Perhaps. You will just have to wait and see.”  
  
Loki sighs gustily, shoulders slumping. “I suppose I shall.”


End file.
